As If It's Not Going To Be There

   Bright sunlight, rain sodden moss and short grasses poked through by tiny multi-colored wildflowers. A half-buried, rust cut, convertible car, submerge parked at one end of this small meadow patch, on all sides surrounded by eucalypt forest. Recovering from the fire (that was the previous night's dream) which destroyed it.
As it has just rained and now the sun has come out, everything has on it numerous points of light reflected in the variously sized beads of clear water that is the dew clinging to every surrounding leaf and blade.
   We are, (that is you, your friend and I), seated in back of this car being chauffeured by the overgrown vines, twisting through the broken windscreen and the piled dirt heap covering where the steering wheel must once have been.
Then, you alone are sitting cross-legged, relaxing in the center of a recently cut down gum tree stump that, given it's girth, must have towered over the side of this hill. Its surface rough and cold with still living recently subject to an amputation dried old tree nerve sap blood remembering as it realised it was to die, all that any roots could know of what once stood above.
The back end of a white painted weatherboard house in the backyard next to the stump, which is on the highest point of the otherwise empty on top of a hill backyard, filled with small, standing groups of suburban backyard barbecue party-goers.
At their head fringes, over the fence, below, across the rooves, the beach that escaped to become the distant sea coast.
No-one is talking. They seem to be deliberately ignoring something.
   The special needs carer service mini-bus has taken its passengers
on a day trip and this morning we've stopped at the beach.
It's a Tuesday morning at the beginning of spring. The sky, the faded blue of a pair of eyes of a kind that you just can't quite remember.
One of the men is standing at the variously located edge of the surf waiting for it to rewind, and recording with his telephone, the motion of the sea waves and the current plays upon the sand grains as they are cycled up and dropped like a deposit of rain from an underwater yellow cloud, to layer the beach afresh, wet and sleek with a new expanse of brine rinsed sand. As if it's not always necessarily going to still be there.
   One of his companions loudly, excitedly repeatedly calls out to by name one of the male carers, who remains still in the car park beside the bus, nearby, but back far enough from the beach to be able to remain out of sight. He does not answer.
Another man also sits, across and away from them. They wonder what he's doing. They wonder what it is like. As if it's not always necessarily going to still be there. Roughly discarding the mandarin skin, he spots, picks up and pockets a white Pipi shell, just in case.

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[Brett Hernan]

My apologies to the first eleven readers for the typographic and grammatical errors, all of which have now been corrected.